Butterflies

In the world of palliative care, when a patient has passed away it’s important that everybody on the care team is aware—so as to preserve the privacy and dignity of the patient and their family. In many places, a simple and effective tool is used: a paper butterfly is placed on the door to the patient’s room, signalling to the entire staff that a life has ended. The butterfly leaves the chrysalis; the soul leaves the body.

On the 17th of a month, I walked down a hospital hallway to a door with a butterfly on it. Many things ended at that door; other things began. Every month since then, I’ve noticed when it’s the 17th. They say that grief comes in waves, and so far, high tide usually arrives on the 17th.

April 17, 2022, was Easter Sunday. I walked into church with my five-year-old to see a huge butterfly piñata hanging in the very centre of the building at the front. It was there for the kids, and it connected to what they had been talking about at Sunday school for the past few weeks. For me, though, there on the 17th, walking down an aisle toward a butterfly—I noticed what day it was. I noticed Grief, and I spotted the usual memories. I braced myself for the wave. But this time, it was different.

The service started, and very soon the piñata was the centre of the kids’ attention. Bells were pressed into tiny hands and began to ring in glorious cacophony, the organ played and the choir sang, and the kids helped to open the piñata. Hundreds of bits of brightly-coloured confetti flew down from the butterfly as if it were a rocket launching, and they rained down on the crowd of littles. My hearing was overwhelmed with bells and music and my vision with fluttering squares of coloured paper—the kids were thrilled, grabbing fistfuls of confetti to toss back in the air to land on their upturned faces.

This 17th was transformed.

Every other 17th, Grief forced its way to the front and demanded my attention. But this 17th, we just nodded at each other like old acquaintances, and Grief stepped back to let me look up at the butterfly instead.

What is it like to come out of a chrysalis, fluttering into the air, soaking in the sun on outstretched wings for the first time? What is it to taste the air with new antennae? Does it feel like bells and confetti?

Was there an experience that the butterfly on the door had been hinting at, one that I hadn’t yet spotted through the fog of my own grief?

And as I watched my five-year-old throwing confetti into the air, then stuffing his pockets with as much as possible to throw down our hallway that afternoon, I saw something else: new joy. Celebration at ground level while the butterfly floated overhead. Being in a shower of confetti for the first time. Possibilities.

New life.

Grieving with a five-year-old has taught me that joy can exist alongside grief—how could there not be in seeing him laugh with a friend or bust out a dance move? I still have much to process and much to grieve, and there will still be 17ths where Grief will insist on taking centre stage for a day. But for today, I am thankful for new life and new joy. I’m thankful for a new way to look at butterflies.